This is a story of clear and incredible hashgacha pratis. It’s the story of an ordinary Jewish woman who did extraordinary things. It’s also the story of how my life was saved.

The Thursday after Purim, March 4 of this year, dawned the most eventful day of my life. It was only through a conflux of events, each a clear miracle from Hashem, that I lived to see the end of it.

My story begins in Hollywood, Florida, where I serve as rosh kollel of the Hollywood Community Kollel. Due to the pandemic, I hadn’t been able to see my mother, who lives in Lakewood, New Jersey, except for one brief, socially distant visit, for more than a year. Boruch Hashem, I received my second vaccine in the beginning of February; and when my mother got hers at the end of the month, I jumped at the chance to visit.

My flight and my stay were uneventful. It was great seeing my mother and we both appreciated the time we spent together. On Thursday, the final day of my three-day visit, I left my mother’s house after saying my final goodbye and promised that I would see her again soon. That promise rang in my ear during the next, very trying, two weeks. I left Lakewood at 5 p.m. in plenty of time to return my rental car and make my 8 p.m. JetBlue flight from Newark back home to Florida—or so I thought.

Traffic was light as I headed north on the Garden State Parkway, and I spent my time making phone calls on behalf of my kollel, glad I made the trip and thinking about when I would be able to return.

As I cruised up the highway, the first of a series of unusual events occurred. Realizing that I needed to fill the car with gas before I returned it, I noticed the Cheesequake rest area ahead and moved over to the right to exit. I was very familiar with Cheesequake, having used it dozens of times during my years living in Lakewood and my frequent visits since. My mind told me that I needed to get off, but for some unexplained reason my hands froze and would not make the necessary adjustment. I shrugged it off to tiredness and continued onward on the Garden State Parkway.

Later, doctors told me that had I reached the airport in a timely fashion and boarded the flight home, I never would have come off alive.

Mrs. Rivky Wakzsul from North Miami Beach made the banal but ultimately fateful decision to buy a sheitel for her daughter, Chaya Sora, a kallah, in Lakewood. They scheduled an appointment for the previous Monday, but as airline tickets had risen considerably, the Wakzsuls had to cancel their trip. On Wednesday, on a whim, they decided to look for tickets again. There were no seats available on her preferred airline, Spirit, but they noticed reasonably priced tickets on JetBlue, an airline on which they had never previously flown, leaving in the morning and returning in the evening, and they booked immediately.

As I drove past Cheesequake, I punched the necessary tabs in my GPS, always a challenging task when driving, asking it to direct me to the closest filling station. To my great relief, the exit was just ahead. I moved to the right, determined not to make the same mistake but, inexplicably, once again, I watched the exit to my right as I sailed by, helpless to get off.

I was concerned, but not very anxious. A quick look at the clock showed me that if I got off at the next exit to which the GPS rerouted me, although it would be a bit tight, I was still on schedule to return the rental car and make my flight.

Now, as I traveled on, my only thought was to exit. As I approached the designated off-ramp, I became confused. The roadway didn’t seem to match the picture on my GPS, and I hesitated until it was too late.

Now, I began to worry. I knew that flights to Florida were full—and expensive—and I didn’t think there was another available flight that night. I wanted to get back for first seder the next morning and to join my family for Shabbat.

The GPS sent me to an exit further up, where I finally managed to leave the highway. Unfortunately, the gas station was several miles distant, and in the dark, it was difficult to drive quickly. The clock was my enemy now. It was going to be tight and I davened to Hashem to help me make my flight.

The refilling went smoothly and I managed to get back on the highway, albeit far north of the airport. I successfully exited, followed the signs and turned my car south in the direction of the airport.

Having had a successful day, the Wakzsuls left Lakewood with time to spare for their return flight. Suddenly, Mrs. Wakzsul remembered that she had neglected to speak with her son-in-law. She quickly turned her car around and parked opposite the beit midrash where he was learning. After finishing her quick greeting and conversation, once again she drove to the airport, this time, because of the late hour, with more than a little alacrity.

As I approached the rental car return I became unsure of the exact turnoff. The GPS was no help and I circled the rental car return twice before bringing my car in on the third pass. I arrived at 7:10 p.m.; the Wakzsuls pulled in a minute later.

Now, I was desperately late and in real danger of missing my flight. I quickly gathered my belongings and raced as fast as I could to the AirTrain leading to the terminals.

As I hurried along, Tehillim on my lips, I became conscious of a shortness of breath. I wasn’t terribly concerned because I wasn’t in the best of shape—my wife has been after me for months to take better care of my health, get an evaluation by my doctor and to lose weight—and I wasn’t quite up to running through airports. I was, however, forced to stop several times in route to the JetBlue terminal to catch my breath, only increasing my anxiety.

Mrs. Wakzsul saw me, and noticing my breathing, she called out to me to ask if I was OK. Lost in my own thoughts, I neither heard nor noticed her.

Upon exiting the shuttle I quickly made my way to the ticket counter where I proceeded to check my luggage. Incredibly, there was little wait and although I checked in close to the departure time, the agent took my luggage. Had she refused my bag with its precious cargo of chaburah baked matzah inside, I would have rescheduled my flight for the next day and would never have arrived to bring it home.

When I got to security, the Wakzsuls were well forward of me in line. Had they continued ahead of me, they never would have noticed when I collapsed.

When the Wakzsuls arrived at the terminal, they were so tired from the ordeal they stopped to buy a drink. The queue was long and I passed them unseeing and unknowing in the gate area.

Sweating profusely and breathing heavily, I was relieved to see the flight had not yet begun to board. I found the nearest unoccupied seat and gratefully began to lower myself into it.

Suddenly, my head began to spin. As the world started to turn around me, the last thing that I remember before losing consciousness was the optimistic thought that a few minutes of rest would put me right.

Having completed their purchase the Wakzsuls tried to find a seat in the crowded terminal, and as they walked past me, Mrs. Wakzsul noticed me slumped in my seat. She remarked to her daughter that something about me seemed odd.

They settled into seats two rows behind me, but a nagging voice in her head kept telling Mrs. Wakzsul to do something. She approached a fellow and asked him if he would poke me to see if I was sleeping or in need of help. The man prodded me, but I didn’t respond. He lifted my hand and it came down lifelessly on my lap.

Mrs. Wakzsul’s scream sounded throughout the terminal. Several men lay me down on the floor and one of them began CPR. The Jewish passengers gathered round and said Tehillim, davening to the only true source of help that the outcome would be successful.

New Jersey Statewide Hatzolah received a frantic call. Statewide Hatzolah was founded by Dr. Nosson Zemel, a visionary from a longtime Newark family, to service Jews in need residing outside of the several established New Jersey Jewish communities, including Newark. Yossi Malek and his partner Yonatan Guige, from Hillside, responded to the call. Sirens blaring, they made the trip from Hillside to the airport in record time, arriving at the scene in nine minutes. The New Jersey Port Authority doesn’t permit Hatzolah to operate in Newark airport, but the duo didn’t stop to ask permission. Barreling through security, they were fortunate that a sympathetic airport employee waved them through.

Unfortunately, the fellow doing CPR tired and was unable to continue. A slightly built woman of Indian origin relieved him. After several minutes of getting no response she thought it worthless to continue. She stopped and announced that it was time to cover me up. Again, Mrs. Wakzsul screamed. “He’s a husband and a father. Please try one more time!”

The woman reluctantly tried again and this time, Boruch Hashem, she got a response. As she grew tired from her exertions, a Jewish man, a construction worker by trade, took over.

Meanwhile, someone ran to the JetBlue gate agent to ask for the automatic defibrillator machine, known as an AED. The uninterested agent said she didn’t know where it was. A passenger shouted that it was hanging near the restrooms. Someone ran quickly and retrieved it. Handing the device to the construction worker, he proceeded to shock me—twice. I resuscitated but quickly collapsed again. He employed it a third time, and I was revived.

Yossi Malek and Yonatan Guige arrived just as the city rescue unit came. They quickly placed a mask over my nose and mouth, and I gulped much-needed oxygen.

As I slowly regained my senses and lifted myself off the floor, for the first time I noticed Mrs. Wakzsul looking at me with a combination of worry and concern. I also saw three Port Authority officers and an EMT looking at me with great apprehension. I didn’t understand how I got on the floor and why they were looking at me like that until much, much later.

I was taken to Newark Beth Israel Hospital where I underwent nine-hour surgery. A team of surgeons did a quadruple bypass and put together my shattered ribs. It was only later, after my recovery from the successful surgery, that I spoke with the principals involved and managed to put some of the pieces of the puzzle together. I realized the great conflux of miracles disguised as everyday events that kept me alive. My doctors told me that the chances of my survival were less than 5%, and the chances of my cognition not being affected were far less than that!

I have great appreciation for Mrs. Rivkie Wakzsul, who cared, got involved and ultimately saved my life. I also have great thanks for the, as-yet unknown people who performed CPR on me and didn’t give up.

I am very thankful to Dr. Nosson Zemel and the chevra at Statewide Hatzolah for their incredible kindness in taking care of me and my wife during my extended stay at the hospital.

Most of all, I have a sense of awe and gratitude to the Master of the Universe who controls all our lives and showed me, and my family, great chesed and let us get a glimpse into some of the complex dynamics of His decisions.

By Rabbi Moshe Parness/Mishpacha Magazine